Getting out of the Thanksgiving bubble

Letting go of what I thought life should look like (note: not easy)

I sat on the edge of my youngest’s bed on Thanksgiving night where he was lying in the dark looking at his phone. “I just wanted to say I was sorry, buddy,” I told him.
 
“What about?” he asked, rolling over to look at me.
 
“That our family didn’t suck tonight and ruin Thanksgiving,” I said, and I could feel his eyes rolling in the dark. I could tell he was thinking, “Oh, geez. Here we go again.”
 
Thanksgiving looked a lot different this year for my family, and it wasn’t just that we all woke up in a different house than in previous years. This Turkey Day, instead of all the lists and shopping and peeling and baking and SO MUCH CLEANING, I decided to outsource Thanksgiving dinner and we went to a restaurant instead.
 
Delightful.
 
I was worried at first that I’d regret the decision I made in September to go out rather than stress about cooking a turkey in my rental oven. Would I miss the traditions of doing all the prep with my two daughters? The three of us starting to conquer all the dishes on our list the night before. Me making the sausage stuffing. My older daughter making the mashed potatoes. The baby girl baking an apple tart.
 
Would I miss the house smelling like turkey on Thanksgiving morning? Pulling all my china and crystal out for their semi-annual appearance on my table? Photographing the dazzling results of all our hard work laid out buffet style right before show time?
 
Would it even seem like Thanksgiving?
 
I am here to report that it never really feels like any holiday anyway. On the given day, people are always saying to each other, “Can you believe it’s Christmas?” or whatever the holiday. It’s always so hard to believe we’ve already arrived at that annual benchmark and how much more quickly they seem to come as we get older. When we’re kids, we’re dying for our birthday or Christmas to arrive. I can remember many sleepless Christmas Eves. And now that I’m in my mid-50s, it’s like, “Again?” Didn’t we do Thanksgiving, like, last month? And birthdays? Oy, they have become relentless.
 
This year was no different, except I could sit around on the couch all morning like everyone else and not resent the hell out of them while I peeled apples for a pie or whatever.
 
For the first time since I moved here in July, all four of my kids slept under my roof the night before Thanksgiving. We were packed into this rental house like sardines and it wasn’t until everyone was starting to turn in that I realized that I had ditched all my extra bedding during the move. That night, the strays at the SPCA were snuggled up in my old sheets and blankets. By the time I distributed whatever bedding I had left for folks to take to the tiny guest room or air mattress on my bedroom floor, my youngest had to make do with the decorative throws in the family room to keep him warm on the couch all night.
 
Each kid slowly made their way down the next morning to join me on the couch (I sent the youngest up to my bed when I came down early), holding steaming cups of frothy coffee. By the time the last one arrived downstairs, the Macy’s parade was already in full swing, and we all sat around and made fun of the random celebrities on floats. Mario Lopez and Big Time Rush. When the giant floats came on screen, we’d reminisce about totems from their childhood. Blues Clues and Goku from Dragonball Z.
 
We rallied to take the dog for a walk late morning and walked up to see the beach on a beautiful November day. It was chilly in the wind walking toward the ocean but once we got there and walked alongside the boardwalk, we all warmed up and tied our outer fleece layers around our waists. The sun is so low in the sky this time of year and it felt good on my face as I walked with the kids and watched the ocean slapping into the stone jetty up ahead.
 
I had booked a table for 7 online in early fall at a restaurant that my hair friend, Lorraine, had gone to with her family years earlier. I remember her telling me about it and I thought, “I’d love to do that someday.” So I booked a table this year for me, the four kids, my sister, and my son’s girlfriend but things happen and in the end, it was just me and the kids.
 
For as long as I can remember, I longed for big Thanksgivings with generations of relatives gathered around the table sharing what they were thankful for and gorging themselves on the perfect meal that I’d prepared. I’ve had those big gatherings in the past and frankly, they weren’t all that I’d imagined they would be. I’d spend days freaking out about how to accommodate so many people and create a Martha Stewart-approved tablescape. I’d lose myself for a week in all the lists and preparing as much as I could in advance of the big day. And when it finally arrived, I served a side of resentment with everyone’s turkey and stuffing when they arrived late or empty-handed. I’d seethe and pick at my plate and later, make note of who did and didn’t help clean up.
 
Even when my Thanksgiving celebrations shrank following my divorce and estrangement from my family, I still silently resented my kids. All the money I spent on preparing a dinner that would make Ina proud and then watching my sons drift back to the football game on TV once they’d rinsed off a few plates. I’d stare at the mountains of pots with mashed potato glued to their rims and the turkey pan slicked with grease and wonder if the 10 minutes at the table eating was worth all of it.
 
All of this silent resentment ate away at me as my overblown expectations were not met and no one was able to read my mind to know what it was I even needed from them. I am slow to the art of communicating my needs.
 
So the old me, the one who had visions of being surrounded by a big, loving, and happy family, initially felt a pang when it was just me and the kids (again) for Thanksgiving. A few days before, my youngest had said he hated the holiday because our family “sucked hard,” or something to that effect. His implication was that there was always tension of some sort that ruined the holiday meal and he’d opt out if he could.
 
“You know you just broke my heart,” I told him as his sister gave him the hairy eyeball from behind my back and said that he really just screwed himself opening that emotional door. “I’ve given my life to this family and you’re telling me I failed,” I continued. He tried to backpedal, but it was too late. The sentiment that our family was the worst was out there in the ether.
 
All of this is to say, my expectations for the Thanksgiving 2022 experience were pretty low as we all climbed into my Honda CRV for the 45-minute ride to the restaurant. We’d all slowly gotten ready throughout the afternoon, navigating sharing the one tiny bathroom and limited space for hair and makeup prep. But no one complained and those not in the throes of getting gorgeous nibbled on a charcuterie board the girls put together and spread out on the long granite kitchen counter.
 
We rode in silence to dinner, listening to whatever songs my daughter cued up on my phone. Lizzo. Beyonce. Taylor Swift. But they became animated when we turned toward the restaurant and they saw giant sculptures looming in the distance. “What the fuck?” one of them said.
 
The restaurant was named “Rats” and is a part of the Grounds for Sculpture, right outside Princeton and as we pulled into the parking lot, the endless rat jokes began. It’s a nod to one of the characters from “The Wind in the Willows,” but for my kids, the eatery’s name was a springboard for hilarity. Throughout the night, we joked that the kitchen was full of rats working Ratatouille-style to prepare our Thanksgiving meal. When my daughter’s gluten-free bread option arrived as two slices of toasted white bread, we couldn’t stop laughing at how hard the rats had worked to make that happen.
 
I’d planned for us to arrive early so we’d have time to walk around outside and see some of the art displays around the restaurant and the Monet-style pond and lily pads with the arched bridge in the distance. The older kids got drinks at the bar and I got a warm cider, and we walked under the late afternoon sun and goofed around, laughing at all the strange art and stopping to take pictures of the giant head rising alongside the pond.
 
They seated us about 15 minutes early and I didn’t even complain when they put us in a side room, which the kids know I don’t love. They know their mother needs to be a part of the action. Don’t put this baby in the corner. But I didn’t want to kill the vibe and recently, my younger daughter told me I needed to start pretending to enjoy things more if I ever want to get remarried. So I’ve taken that advice to heart.
 
My youngest was thrilled to see that there was a prime rib option for dinner and that he wouldn’t be forced to eat turkey. In fact, only one of us actually chose the turkey option. And we all enjoyed our multiple courses plus dessert, which we’d already discussed the working children would be paying for themselves at the end of the meal.
 
The conversation flowed easily as we joked and teased and reminisced. We’d also agreed beforehand to leave more unpleasant topics home for the night, so the time passed without anyone suffering any EFBs (our family’s acronyms for emotional flashbacks).
 
My daughter DJ’d the car ride home, which went quickly as we chatted and listened to Drake and Kayne’s American Boy, even though everyone in the car agreed he was canceled (but we still loved the song). One of the last songs as we sped down Route 35 toward home, the lights of the boats in the marina twinkling alongside us, was Florence and the Machine’s Dog Days. I turned it up loud as we climbed up the bridge spanning the Shark River, and we sang my favorite line, “Happiness, hit her like a bullet in the back.”
 
That’s how it is sometimes. Something hitting you right out of the blue, reminding you of what’s good. Without much planning and little expectation. But also, years in the making.

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SUNDAY SHARES: Read, watch, cook, buy

• The bedding crisis of '22 sent me to the internet on Black Friday in search of a new duvet cover for my own bed. I figured I'd upgrade myself, and then pass everything down the line. I picked up a cotton percale cover on Parachute, which is still offering 20% off today (Sunday, 11/27). PS: it already arrived yesterday.

• I am hot for this oversized cashmere wrap at JCrew is 50% off + an extra 10% right now. I envision myself wrapped in one for all the trips I'm manifesting for the new year. But even if those plans fall through, I will look very chic on work calls as I try to stay warm at my desk all winter.

• Speaking of travel, I picked up my very chic friend, Wendy, from the airport to drive up to Vermont earlier this fall and eyed her super cute black sweatsuit the whole ride. "Sweatsuit" does not do the perfect casual + comfy travel wardrobe justice. But then I was sad to learn that it was not a set she picked up at Old Navy and instead from Frank + Eileen (a brand all my college friends seemed to embrace). Anyhoo, the top is on sale right now and if my kids are reading this, mama would love it in black. 

• Despite the crying baby at the back of the theater and the relentless texting by the woman seated next to me during the three-hour movie, I loved Wakanda Forever. My daughter is a Marvel universe aficionado and she gave it two thumbs up as well.

Thank you as always for reading. New to the Sunday email? You can catch up on past issues and sign up to get in on the weekly fun. I'll see you back here next week! 
xoAmy

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